Elysian’s skin prickled. Every instinct screamed at him to tread carefully, to back away from whatever game Throrak was playing. And then, just as the silence threatened to snap—

  “Why don’t we let the remaining rootless fight?” Throrak’s voice was smooth—too smooth. Amusement curled at the edges like smoke from a dying fire, slow and insidious. That same sharp grin still sat on his face, but his eyes—his eyes locked onto Elysian’s like a blade pressing just beneath the skin, testing for a reaction.

  A hush settled over the warriors. The two who had just risen froze mid-step, their snarls dying in their throats. Heads turned. The fight that was seconds from erupting had been gutted, replaced with a new source of tension.

  Elysian’s heartbeat slammed against his ribs.

  ‘Oh, f*ck.’

  Kaerthlyn shifted beside him, caught off guard for just a breath before her grin returned. Amusement danced in her sharp eyes. She didn’t know what had prompted the change in contestants, but she enjoyed the shock on Elysian’s face, the way the air around them thickened with anticipation.

  Drask raised a brow, intrigued. His gaze flicked from Elysian to Throrak, weighing the idea before he exhaled. “I’m the officiator of this competition. Even if you’re the leader of Gulthram, you don’t dictate how this goes. I decide. I alone decide.”

  Throrak’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. He expected that response. Counted on it. “I know you decide,” he said, voice steady, certain. “But let’s not pretend I’m the only one curious.” He cocked his head slightly, as if peering into Drask’s very thoughts. “Admit it. You want to see the rootless fight.”

  Drask’s expression remained impassive, his gaze locked onto Throrak’s. The tension stretched, a taut thread between them. The warriors waited, silent. Watching.

  Vrakdur sighed, the weight of irritation pressing against his shoulders. “Throrak, you can’t just throw a challenge out like that. The matches are set. You know this. We have rules.”

  Throrak chuckled. “Rules?” He shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement. “We aren’t Ragnhyr, Vrakdur. We aren’t so bound by rules that our asses turn to stone.”

  A few chuckles rippled through the crowd, but the weight of his words still hung in the air, heavy with intent.

  “We are Gulthram and Draekthar,” Throrak continued, voice rich with confidence. “We do as we please.” He turned his attention to the two warriors who had been set to fight. They stood rigid, waiting, not objecting—because they couldn’t. The unspoken reality settled over them. Their battle was already forgotten. The real spectacle had just been proposed.

  Throrak’s grin widened. “Besides,” he mused, “I know full well how these matches are truly decided. We let them choose their fights. We let them sort it out among themselves.” His gaze flicked toward Vrakdur. “Isn’t that right?”

  Vrakdur remained silent for a beat too long. Then, reluctantly, he exhaled. “You might be right.” A flicker of victory flashed through Throrak’s eyes. “But,” Vrakdur continued, turning toward Drask, “as you said—let him decide. He’s the officiator. He has the final say.”

  Drask’s gaze lingered on Throrak before shifting to Vrakdur, who was watching him expectantly, waiting for his support. But Drask’s expression remained unreadable. He let the silence stretch, as if savoring the weight of their anticipation. Then, a slow grin curled his lips.

  “Why don’t we let the rootless fight?” The words landed like a dropped blade, sharp and inevitable.

  Vrakdur’s face darkened. “What?”

  Drask tilted his head, amused by the reaction. “Why are you looking at me like that?” His tone was light, mocking. “You let me decide, so I decided.” He exhaled a dramatic sigh, then shot a smirk toward Throrak. “That b*stard is right—this whole thing has been a damn drag. Let’s make it interesting.” He paused, raising a brow at Vrakdur. “And besides, the Matriarch already granted these rootless a place in the trial—if they prove themselves. Might as well get to it.”

  Vrakdur clenched his jaw, his gaze flicking to Elysian. A moment of hesitation. Then he sighed, shaking his head in resignation. “Do whatever you want.”

  Elysian’s stomach twisted.

  ‘Sh*t.’

  A slow shift rippled through the gathered warriors. Eyes turned to him, weighing, measuring. The hum of conversation died, replaced by the expectant hush of an audience sensing something worth watching. He knew that look. They weren’t just waiting for a fight. They were waiting to see and measure who he was.

  Elysian’s pulse pounded, but not from fear—frustration. He had tried to avoid this. Had tried to keep his head down, to maneuver through this place without inviting too much scrutiny. But it was useless. The moment he stepped into this place, he’d surrendered any hope of going unnoticed.

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  ‘Why am I even surprised? This was inevitable. I’m the Matriarch’s guest, I am what they call rootless. I simply don’t belong. The moment I helped Sybil, I lost the luxury of blending in.’

  Elysian exhaled slowly, steadying himself. The weight of the attention pressed down, but he let it settle. Then he lifted his head, exhaling softly. His expression changed, the last remnants of hesitation peeling away. The mask of casual indifference was discarded. If he could not hide, then he would meet their expectations head-on. He would shape their perception—use it.

  He met Throrak’s gaze, not with defiance, but with something colder, something measured. Something that made the smirking clan leader’s eyes glint with even greater amusement.

  ‘Fine. If they want a spectacle, I’ll give them one. But on my terms.’

  Elysian rose to his feet, moving forward with the weight of a hundred stares pressing down on him. He neither hesitated nor hurried. Each step was measured, deliberate, as if he were strolling through his own backyard rather than stepping into a pit of warriors eager to tear him apart. There was no uncertainty in his posture, no flicker of fear. Just quiet, unwavering confidence.

  Drask’s lips curled in amusement as he observed him. “Ah, it seems our rootless here is eager for a fight.” His voice carried through the gathering, laced with approval. He turned towards the warriors of Gulthram, scanning their ranks. “Where are your representatives?”

  A brief silence, then—shouts, scuffling. The young warriors of Gulthram jostled against each other, each vying for the chance to face Elysian. Some laughed, some barked out challenges, and others bared their teeth, eyes gleaming with the desire to break him. They were not merely eager to fight—they wanted to be the one who crushed him.

  Drask frowned. He did not appreciate being ignored. His patience snapped, and he pointed to the largest among them—a towering brute with broad shoulders, thick arms crisscrossed with battle scars, and a face set in a perpetual scowl. “You there. You’ll have the honor of getting your ass handed to you by this brat.” He jabbed a thumb toward Elysian.

  Elysian remained still. No flinch, no reaction. He simply watched.

  The chosen warrior straightened, a slow grin spreading across his face. He puffed out his chest and let out a guttural laugh, pounding his fist against his palm as if he had already claimed victory. His companions erupted in protest, their voices rising in a chorus of dissatisfaction, but Drask silenced them with a sharp-toothed grin. “If you’ve got a problem with my pick, step up and fight me instead.” The protests died instantly. The challenge was left unanswered. “Good.” Drask turned back to the thralgar he had chosen. “Come on, then. You’re wasting our time.”

  The warrior strode forward with heavy, earth-shaking steps, closing the distance between himself and Elysian. Up close, the difference between them was staggering. The thralgar was a beast of a fighter, nearly four times Elysian’s size, with arms thick as tree trunks and a chest that looked like it had been hewn from solid rock. His skin bore the marks of countless battles—scars stretching across his biceps, jagged lines carving through his jaw. He was young, but his body told a different story. A veteran in everything but years.

  By comparison, Elysian was… small. Looking at the massive warrior standing before him, he could hear the change in the crowd’s energy. The gathered warriors—Gulthram and Draekthar alike—watched in silence, assessing the mismatch. The warriors of Gulthram shouted encouragement, confident in their champion. The Draekthar remained silent, their support for Elysian uncertain. They had seen his skill, seen his intelligence in the way he fought Durvalk and aided Sybil. But this? This was different. They saw the raw, physical disparity.

  It was absurd. Unfair. And yet, no one laughed. Elysian didn’t need their belief. He only needed his own. His opponent sneered, baring jagged teeth as he rumbled something in the troll tongue. The words were lost on Elysian, but their meaning was clear. The tone, the smirk—mockery, a dismissal wrapped in overconfidence. The thralgar thought this would be an easy win.

  Elysian didn’t reply. He simply exhaled slowly, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword.

  Drask clapped his hands together, grinning. “Alright. Ready?” The Gulthram warrior rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck as a low growl rumbled in his chest. Elysian gave a single, sharp nod. His opponent bared his fangs, eager. Drask’s grin widened. “Good. Fight.”

  A roar split the air. The thralgar surged forward like an avalanche, his aura flaring in molten streaks, heat rolling off him in waves. The ground trembled beneath his charge.

  Elysian did not move. Feet planted. Posture loose, yet poised. He did not meet his opponent’s fury with his own, nor did he let his aura rise. He only watched, expression unreadable, eyes tracking every shift in muscle, every subtle imbalance in the thralgar’s gait. He was searching. Calculating. Every step his opponent took fed into a single purpose—to win. Decisively.

  The Gulthram warrior thundered closer, his wild grin stretched wide, anticipation glinting in his eyes. He could already see it—the moment his fist crashed into the rootless, crumpling him into the dirt, his body broken like a discarded twig. The crowd roared, urging him on, a tide of voices swelling behind him.

  Elysian’s hand flicked. A glint of wood, a splintered shard no larger than a fingertip, whistled through the air, a sliver of movement too insignificant to register—until it struck.

  The thralgar flinched, twisting his head just enough to save his eye, but the shard exploded against his temple, bursting into fine, stinging dust. He strangled a curse, reeling back, hands flying to his eyes, blinking furiously.

  Elysian was already moving. A single breath. He shifted his weight. Aura flooded his legs, his grip tightening on his sword. And then—gone. He reappeared in a blur, balanced on the thralgar’s shoulder. The moment his boots made contact, his blade kissed flesh—a clean, decisive slash across the thick column of his opponent’s throat. The steel bit deep, blood welling instantly. The thralgar jerked, confused, one hand flying to his gaping wound, the other reaching blindly for Elysian.

  It was too slow as Elysian pushed off, aura bursting beneath his heels as he launched himself forward. A sharp, brutal kick to the back of the warrior’s head sent him sprawling. He crashed into the floor with a shuddering impact, his roar turning to a wet, garbled cry. His body convulsed, hands clawing at his throat, blood pooling beneath him.

  The world had not yet caught up. Silence hung, heavy and stunned. The Gulthram warriors, once brimming with confidence, stood frozen, their cheers strangled into disbelief. The Draekthar remained silent, watching, their expressions unreadable.

  The fallen warrior writhed, struggling, gasping. He gurgled something incomprehensible, hands slick with his own blood. His body shuddered, legs kicking weakly against the dirt.

  Elysian landed lightly, feet settling as if he had simply stepped off a ledge. His blade, now painted crimson, remained steady in his grip. He did not gloat. Did not revel. His expression was the same as it had been when he walked forward to face his opponent—calm. Detached.

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